


Everything Goes Blank

by saidthegrasstotheleaf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saidthegrasstotheleaf/pseuds/saidthegrasstotheleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every so often Sherlock succumbs to depression. John tries to help, in whatever ways he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Goes Blank

**Author's Note:**

> I suffer from terrible depression, and I wrote the beginnings of this on one of the particularly bad days. Not necessarily meant as a Johnlock piece, but I guess it could be implied if you like (much like the show, amiright?), hence the tag. I envision this as being set sometime pre-fall, but you could really put it anywhere in the timeline.
> 
> I wasn't sure whether I was doing the right thing, using my own depression as a template for Sherlock's, but for a long time I've identified with the "black moods" the character suffers. Here's what I imagine it might be like for Sherlock.

I hear John stirring upstairs.  Creaky floorboards, old flat, little noises vibrating through my eardrums.  Neural signals travelling to my brain, interpreted, analyzed, identified.  The temporal lobe is involved in auditory perception.  Perception, _noun_ , the ability to see, hear, or become aware of something through the senses; the neurophysiological processes, including memory, by which an organism becomes aware of and interprets external stimuli.  Cascading action potentials, signals sneaking down neural pathways cocooned in myelin.  Neurons firing, not firing.  Electricity humming through the brain, and somehow it means that John is walking on creaky old floorboards.

 

I don’t want his love and concern today (and I know it’s love, even if John thinks I’m baffled), but leaving my place on the sofa seems altogether too difficult.  No, not difficult, just not worth it.  His concern will irritate me, I’ll feel coddled and closed in.  It will chafe and I will hate him for it.  But I don’t want him to ignore me either, because that will mean that he does not care, and that will hurt (very much).  I want his attention and I don’t want it.  I can’t have both.  A paradox.  Useless.

 

John would want me to eat something.  Apples on the coffee table, digestives next to the kettle, bread tucked beside the toaster.  Milk in the fridge.  Beans, pasta on the shelf.  I have options.  Too much effort.  There’s a pain in my stomach that tells me I should eat, but I don’t see the point.  Dull.

 

Everything seems dull.  Pointless.  Somewhere in the back of my mind (neurons crackle with electricity) I know that, somewhere, idiots will be carrying out criminal acts.  I may even be called upon to catch said idiot criminals.  Logically, I know that this will bring me out of the dark mood I find myself in.  But I can’t quite believe the logic.  There is no point.  I feel, against all logic, against all evidence, that nothing will change, that this apathy will last forever.  I abhor feelings, but how can I ignore them when they have so much power?

 

John’s speaking.  To whom?  Conversation, not just mumbling to himself.  On his mobile.

 

With no focus, my mind continues to race, but it doesn’t get far.  It sprints in one direction and its path falls apart, dispersing like dye in water.  The path becomes cloudy, and I move in another direction.  An abundance of thoughts, no purpose, nothing deep, nothing useful.  My mind feels dull with nothing to press against.  No way to measure a knife’s sharpness if it only cuts through air.

 

To whom is John speaking?  Doesn’t matter.  I lose focus.

 

The violin is staring at me from its perch on the desk.  I’m past the point of its comfort.  Place it in my hands and I will do nothing.  Like a zombie.  John would appreciate the cultural reference.  Do zombies have the desire for personal expression?

 

There is absolutely no purpose to this line of thinking.  Disgusting.

 

Zombie.  Etymology: West African or Lousiana creole origin.  Fetish, phantom, ghost, reanimated corpse.  I was obsessed with Victor Frankenstein’s experiments when I was young.  Galvanized flesh lay out on the floor of my room, twitching, the neighbor’s daughter crying in the midst of an ill-fated play date.  I received three stripes on my hand and my experiments were confiscated.

 

Can hear the sound of the toilet flushing, John coughing away morning respiratory stiffness as the shower bursts into life.  He would smile at the story of the galvanized rabbit, even though he’d feel sorry for the little girl.  Bit not good.  He’d feel sorry for me, too, if I told him about the switch on my hand, but I wouldn’t.  He’d suggest a new experiment for me.  Perhaps something to stimulate my mind.

 

No, no experiments.  Each idea seems more useless than the last.  Perhaps I should save my good experiments for these days when everything is black.  But no, looking back on my last study (making nitroglycerin, John was _furious_ and it was exciting) brings me no joy.  It was a stupid thing to do.

 

No point.  My gaze rests on the empty fireplace.  John cleared it of ash last week, I can tell by the way the dust has settled in the cracks of the hearth.  He’s going to have a woman over after taking her out to dinner tonight.  He thinks I didn’t listen, or I’ve forgotten, but I did and I haven’t.

 

My thoughts barely get anywhere now.  Just tiny stumbles forward.  Everything going quiet.  I know I should be concerned with the growing silence in my mind, but it is a relief.  Maybe if I lay here long enough everything will just… stop…

 

“Sherlock?”

 

John, downstairs.  Done with his shower (didn’t notice, don’t care).  I can smell his soap from here.  Same brand, new bar.

 

“Sherlock, will you open your eyes for me?”

 

Were my eyes closed?  I open them and John is crouched beside me.  “I was asleep,” I say.  I wasn’t.

 

“No you weren’t,” John tells me.  I hear something sentimental in his tone.  Fondness, I suppose.  “Bad day?”

 

I stare at his shirt and nod.  He missed a button.  I can see grey peeking out of the gap, warm heather covered up with blue plaid.  “Grey.”

 

“You’re feeling grey?”

 

I open my mouth to correct him, but it’s as good a descriptor of my mental state as any, if a bit romantic (like John).  “You missed a button.”

 

He glances down and fixes the problem, left hand deftly slipping the plastic through its placket.  He pauses and rests a hand on my shoulder, rubs my back a little.  Warm, nice.  The weight is comforting.  “Anything I can do to help?” John asks me.

 

Oh, John.  If I weren’t dragged so low I might laugh, tease you just a little, and you’d roll your eyes and be irritated and might even sulk (but never leave, not ever).  I say nothing.  I can hear John sigh slightly.  He knows it's a very bad one.

 

“What do you need, Sherlock?” John whispers, leaning close, resting his cheek on my shoulder, his hand gently petting my hair.  I’m fairly sure that this is not what flatmates do.  I don’t care.  There are too many exceptions between us to make a difference now.

 

“I don’t know.”  John’s weight is anchoring.  “Stay a while?”

 

John nods, and I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.

 

“Budge up,” John says, and pushes gently on my hip.  I shuffle back into the couch, and he sits down in the space in front of my belly, resuming his former position of head on my shoulder and hand in my hair.  The weight on my upper body is comforting, an anchor.  He is seated on the edge of my robe, pulling it tight.  I feel wrapped, cocooned like a swaddled child.  I don’t know why I don’t hate it.

 

His left hand is free and I grasp at it, pulling it up in front of my face.  Such strong, clever hands.  To the unknowing eye they seem unremarkable.  One might even think them clumsy, but they are not.  Surgeon’s hands.  I’ve watched John fix my watch with those healing hands.  His palms are dry and warm, the skin thick, and I run my fingertips over the tiny hairs on his knuckles.

 

John hums questioningly at me.  “See anything?” he asks.

 

Nothing I haven’t seen before.  I stop my examination and hold tighter, watching as the blood shifts in the flesh of his digits.  “People really will talk,” I murmur.  He chuckles at the joke, and the vibration of his chest bounces against my arm.

 

“I don’t do this for just anyone, you know,” he says quietly.

 

“Mm.”  I’m not sure what the proper response to that is.  I don’t want to say the wrong thing, because this is a first and I don’t have the proper data to know how to respond to John in this moment.

 

“Whatever’s happening, just know that I love you, and I’m here if you need me.”

 

I can’t say anything.  My chest hurts, and my eyes itch.  I haven’t cried real tears since I was a child, and I won’t be starting now.  Instead I clutch at his hand and hope that he knows what I cannot express.  I’m certain he understands.

 

Eventually John shifts and pushes at my shoulder.  He needs to get dressed and go to the clinic.  I let him leave and fall into the warm space left vacant on the couch.

 

John smiles, his hand resting lightly on my hair before he departs for the kitchen.  I immediately feel the loss of his weight and warmth, but it doesn’t hurt.  I know I’m going to get up after John brings me my tea.


End file.
